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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494331">Tradition</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/buriedbybooks/pseuds/buriedbybooks'>buriedbybooks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Leverage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Multi, Religion, Traditions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:35:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,873</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/buriedbybooks/pseuds/buriedbybooks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Parker tries to understand why people believe what they believe (and do what they do), and what she decides to take from it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer, Sophie Devereaux/Nathan Ford</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>157</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tradition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAsSweet/gifts">JustAsSweet</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic is for JustAsSweet, who threw out there the headcanon that Hardison really is Jewish and wanted to read more about it (see The Homecoming Job and The Cross My Heart Job).  I am not Jewish; I tried to do what research I could for this story and am always happy to learn more.  The structure turned into a not-quite-traditional 5+1 because (let’s face it) I just like writing them, and it gave me a chance to explore Parker’s understanding of beliefs and traditions.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>1.</b><br/>
Parker was usually not present when Hardison went off and did his thing--talking circles around security guards or any other person who needed distracting so that they could get away with a job.  She had heard it over the comms any number of times, but didn’t really listen to it.  Parker knew that one of Hardison’s strategies was to make people uncomfortable, because then they would do anything to make the situation stop or go away.  </p><p>Parker didn’t really care what Hardison said as long as it worked.</p><p>It was Eliot who noticed a pattern first.  While she was sitting on the counter next to him while he cooked dinner when he asked, “You met Nana yet?”</p><p>Parker frowned.  She’d mentioned it.  Knew Hardison wanted her to meet Nana, but it hadn’t worked out yet.  “No…”</p><p>“Think she raised Hardison in a Jewish tradition?”</p><p>Parker just stared at the hitter, who was still cutting chicken breasts into little strips.  This was not something she had ever considered.</p><p>Eliot quirked an eyebrow at her.  “Ever listen to what Hardison says in his monologues?”</p><p>Parker thought about it, and then realized what Eliot had seen that she hadn’t.  Hardison was as likely to throw accusations of anit-semetism as racism at security guards.  <i>"...Everybody got a problem with this?  Look, racism, sexism, anti-semitism?  That’s how y’all want to play this?  Cool.  I thought it was a no-no in airport security, but I see y’all are profiling me right, left, and center, everywhere.  You know what?  Shame on you.  Shame on your mama.  Shame on your kids…"</i>  And had claimed to be Jewish.  <i>"Okay, I see what this is.  This is racial.  This is about my ethniticity, ain’t it?  Uh huh.  It’s ‘cause I’m Jewish?  Just ‘cause a brother like matzo-ball soup, what’s wrong with that?"</i>.  </p><p>But was that just Hardison spinning stories for the job?  Was this something important that they had missed about their partner?</p><p>“I didn’t catch it either, until this last trip, when he actually referred to himself as "Blewish" during one of his rants and I had to look it up,” Eliot admitted.</p><p>“He got that from the teen movie we watched a few weeks ago,” Parker murmured.  </p><p>The hitter snorted.  “You fell asleep.”</p><p>Parker made a face.  “It was boring; Hardison kept waking me up when he laughed.” It had made his stomach bounce under her head.</p><p>Eliot's expression said that he disagreed… maybe even liked the movie.  But he just shrugged.  “Whatever.”</p><p>Eliot was right, they were getting distracted from the point.  But Parker didn’t have an answer.  Faith didn’t make sense to her.  She liked Christmas.  And Santa.  Parker didn’t know about any God.</p><p>Of course Hardison would take that moment to come into the kitchen looking for them both.</p><p>“What’s with the frown, mama?” Hardison asked as he leaned in to brush a kiss against her cheek and at the same time cop a feel of Eliot’s ass.</p><p>Eliot swatted at the hacker, and Parker narrowed her eyes at him.</p><p>“I haven’t even done anything!” Hardison protested.  “What’re you both glaring at me for?”</p><p>“Alec.”  Parker stared at her partner.  Just because faith wasn’t important to her, didn’t mean it wasn’t important to him.  She needed to know.  “Are you Jewish?”</p><p>Hardison just blinked at her.</p><p>Eliot sighed.  “What she means to say is, it’s absolutely alright if you want to practice your faith here.  Shabbat, Hanukkah.  If Nana raised you that way, and it’s important...”</p><p>Hardison unfroze and the smile that crossed his face was the sweet, boyish one.  Parker always felt warm when he used that smile, of his smiles, it was the rarest.</p><p>“Nana didn’t care what we believed as long as we believed in <i>something</i>.”  Hardison leaned back against the counter, relaxed.</p><p>Parker felt the tension ebb out of her shoulders and Eliot’s stance in response.  This was a good memory that they’d prodded.</p><p>“I had siblings who practiced Catholicism, different brands of christianity, one girl who was older when she moved in continued to with Wicca.  Nana is Jewish, though she attends services with whichever of her kids want her to.  I went with her, since at that age I didn’t care one way or another.  So yeah.  I consider myself Jewish if I think about it.  Don’t really practice much anymore, though.  Just when I’m with Nana and whatever crop of kids she’s got.”</p><p>Eliot nodded.  “You were serious about liking matzo ball soup?”</p><p>“Yeah, man.  Nana made all that stuff for the holidays.  Celebrated most holidays in our house in one way or another, we all pitched in to scrape it together.”  Hardison looked wistful.  “Why you asking about this now?”</p><p>“Blewish,” Parker said.</p><p>Hardison laughed.  “Fits, though, doesn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p><b>2.</b><br/>
To Parker, things don’t really seem to change much after that enlightening discussion in the kitchen.  There were dishes that Eliot made that she’d never seen before appearing periodically.  The matzo ball soup, something called latkes that were okay because they were fried.  Her favorite was the fancy braided bread because Eliot usually put a jar of Nutella right next to her when he served it.</p><p>The best part was that Hardison smiled--that soft look in his eyes when he teased Eliot about old dogs and new tricks.  It would devolve into bickering and they were so comfortable with each other that Parker just watched.  Her partners.</p><p>She knew that these little things, these offerings, made Hardison happy.  That it was a small piece of good that tied his past and present.  There was nothing that made her feel that way… her early memories weren’t particularly happy.  Exhilaration, thrill, the dash into midair for the first time.  But not happy.  That she hadn’t really known until she’d found this family.</p><p>Eliot didn’t talk about the earlier years, either, though periodically they rubbed up against his past, both good and bad.</p><p>“Do you believe in anything?” Parker asked one afternoon while they were jogging.</p><p>The hitter didn’t answer right away, but she could tell by the crook of his lips that he was considering how to answer.  “Used to,” he said eventually.  “God.  Country.”</p><p>Parker heard the words he wasn’t saying.  That life beat those beliefs out of him.  He had seen too much, done too much.  If she pushed, Eliot would tell her, but that was one wound she didn’t want to poke.  Not unless she had to.</p><p>Eliot didn’t ask her the question in return.  They’d run a few more blocks before he added, “Easier, now.”</p><p>Tilting her head, Parker looked closely at his shoulders and hands.  They were always so expressive, and often told her things even when Eliot’s face didn’t.  “Alec,” she said.</p><p>“Alec,” he agreed.</p><p> </p><p><b>3.</b><br/>
Parker started decorating their apartment, offices, and the pub the day after Thanksgiving.  Lights and greenery went everywhere she could reach, and considering the open beamwork, there was a lot of real estate to cover.  She liked Christmas.  It was bright and warm, contrasting with crisp white snow.  Not that it really snowed in Portland, but Hardison and Eliot would take a long weekend away from the pub so they could drive to mountains powdered in white.</p><p>Christmas also meant chocolate.  Any holiday that required chocolate was a good thing in her mind.</p><p>A few days after this, when Parker was adding some more gems to the special tree in their apartment, she noticed a rather battered and tarnished candle holder sitting on a windowsill.  It only had two candles in it, one raised in the center and the other all the way to one side, even though there was space for nine candles.  It looked lonely and unbalanced.  Parker frowned for a moment, considering this new addition to her cheerful space.  She decided that she liked the fact that there were three chocolate coins near the base.  Three was a good number.  The candle holder…</p><p>She watched it for the next couple of days.  Hardison added one candle to the holder each day, and used the center candle to light them in the evenings.  He would toss her the chocolate coins, either one or two at a time, or in the small net bags.  Eliot made faces when he also received the coins, and quietly passed them to her, muttering direly about wax.</p><p>It was a quiet thing, nothing produced about it, just something that Hardison started doing in the evening.  Parker studied him.  Studied that candle holder--menorah--Hardison called it.  She wondered if it was like bunny, battered and beloved, or if it was just what was readily to hand.  The candles were bright, but the menorah itself disappeared next to the grandeur she’d put on the tree.</p><p>Parker mentally went through the index she’d made for her storage units.  The idea of nine--eight candles or wells with a ninth set apart--had been vaguely familiar.  It wasn’t until she pictured silver filigree and gemstones that she was able to determine why.  When Archie had been training her, she’d lifted it from a museum because it was pretty--and she thought Archie would be impressed by the gems.  He hadn’t been--had actually called it ostentatious--but she’d kept it, proof of her success.</p><p>When both Hardison and Eliot were distracted, she disappeared to her storage unit and pulled it out.  Even now, Parker knew the location of each object she had stolen, and its previous ownership and display history.  She turned the object over in her hands, remembering the original tag which had read “Hanukkah lamp, c. 1800-1849, Poland”.  It was a very different design from the one on their windowsill, with eight small pitchers for oil sitting on the base with a decorative backing and one candle holder aloft on the left side.  It was ornate, delicate silver filigree decorated with precious stones.</p><p>She stole a candle from a shop on her way back to the brewpub, and borrowed some of Eliot’s olive oil to fill the first five wells.  It should be five tonight; last night Hardison had lit four candles.  Parker set it on the windowsill beside the other menorah.  After a moment of staring at it, Parker went to one of her stashes in the apartment and pulled out three gold eagles that she’d taken from a safe deposit box last month.  Putting the gold coins around the feet of the filigreed lamp, it no longer looked lonely.  Hardison’s bunny menorah had decorative company.</p><p>Satisfied, Parker went back to work putting more gold and gems on the tree.  Really, she should figure out what to put on the trees downstairs, since they were bare by comparison.  Not her special treasures, but something.</p><p>Eliot got back first, and she heard him snort when he noticed the new additions.</p><p>Hardison, as always, had to ask questions.  “Babe…?  Where did the Torah ark lamp come from?”</p><p>“You should know better than to ask that by now,” Eliot barked from the kitchen.</p><p>Parker just shrugged.</p><p>“And real gold coins.  Wait, are those… gold eagles?  Seriously, woman, I thought we weren’t going to clean out every safe deposit box we checked.”  Hardison’s voice became suspiciously squeaky toward the end of that sentence.</p><p>She just shrugged again, starting to feel uncomfortable.  Parker had just wanted his holiday to be as festive as hers, but hadn’t gotten it quite right.</p><p>Gentle hands on her shoulders spun her around so that Hardison could see her face.  Parker knew he read faces better than body language, could read hers more easily than she could find words.</p><p>“This one means something to you, doesn’t it?  Thank you for sharing it with me,” Hardison said after a moment, leaning closer to brush his lips against her forehead.  When he drew back, his lips were twitching…. “Which museum…?”</p><p>“Don’t ask that!” Eliot cut in again.  “We don’t want to know, remember?”</p><p> </p><p><b>4.</b><br/>
“Soooophie,” Parker said into the phone, trying to get the woman’s attention when there was obviously something interesting going on around her.  “Sophie, tell me what you believe.”</p><p>“Believe, Parker?”  Sophie’s beautifully accented tones distorted slightly over the line, but her confusion at the blunt question was obvious.</p><p>“You know.  God and stuff.  What do you believe?” Parker clarified.</p><p>She had watched Hardison pack away the menorahs, celebrate Christmas with her and Eliot, and then things were quiet again.  Eliot continued to quietly make the dishes that Hardison seemed to appreciate the most, but he wouldn’t really talk about any of it.  It was too close to one of those raw places that made his voice even harsher with the challenge of speaking things aloud.  So Parker didn’t ask, and Eliot didn’t offer, and Hardison just kept being… Blewish.</p><p>Sophie was usually good at these things.  She’d always been happy to talk before, had helped Parker orient feelings and thoughts so that they made sense.</p><p>Apparently this was not going to be one of those helpful times.  Parker frowned at the floor between her feet as she clutched the phone tighter against her ear.</p><p>“Parker, sweetie, belief is all well and good for manipulating someone.  It’s a wonderful hook.  For myself, I don’t really subscribe to any system of beliefs in a higher power, too much smoke and mirrors.  It’s a lot like falling,” Sophie told her blythely.  “Ooh, that’s lovely…  Sorry, distracted again.  Why are you asking, Parker?  Don’t tell me you’re pulling off another miracle.”</p><p>“No…”</p><p>“Faith’s a powerful thing, Parker.  It can both make a person stronger and more vulnerable.  Be careful if it’s something you’re going to try to manipulate in a job; it can backfire.”</p><p>Parker picked at something on the floor next to her.  “It’s not for a job.”</p><p>Sophie was quiet, waiting.</p><p>“I just need to understand.”</p><p>“Hardison?”</p><p>They both knew that it wasn’t Eliot.</p><p>“Have you called Nate?”</p><p>Parker shook her head.  Nate… Nate was even harder to understand over the phone.  Even if he was the one of their team who had actually thought about being a priest, and talked like he knew things about faith.</p><p>“Call him, Parker.”</p><p>Shoes came into view.  Her hiding place underneath the dining room table had been discovered.</p><p>“Thanks, Sophie.”</p><p>Parker hung up the phone before Eliot crouched down to check on her.  She met his gaze, knowing that he was studying her.  Crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes and he nodded, holding out his hand to pull her out and up.</p><p>Eliot was right.  She’d get there.  Even if she had to try to get Nate to give her a straight answer.</p><p>Parker took his hand.</p><p> </p><p><b>5.</b><br/>
Parker was perched on the beam above the debriefing counter in their office.  Sitting in front of her was her cell phone, screen black because she hadn't pressed call after pulling up Nate's contact.</p><p>What exactly did she want to ask him?  What he believed?  Nate had considered himself Catholic at one point, maybe he still did.  But a one word answer wasn't going to help.  Belief.  Faith.  Even Catholicism wasn't really useful.</p><p>Maybe it was a question of why.  Why follow a set of beliefs? Or how.  How do people decide?</p><p>Hardison kept Hanukkah, but also celebrated Christmas.  He apparently wasn't eating bread this week, but matzo ball soup was on the table almost every night.  Religion didn't make much sense to her to begin with, but all of these different food dictates were even more confusing.</p><p>Parker was also willing to admit that she missed the fancy braided bread.</p><p>Blowing out a breath, Parker picked up the phone and called.</p><p>"Parker," Nate said.  No questions.  No <i>Why are you calling?</i> or <i>Why didn't you call months ago after Sophie told you to?</i>. He knew her too well for that.</p><p>"How did you choose what to believe?  Decide to study priest stuff and then leave?"</p><p>There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment.  Nate turning over her questions, trying to understand the thoughts behind them.</p><p>“Each person’s relationship with faith is different.  Unique to their upbringing, personality, values.  I decided against guiding people’s faith; it wasn’t something I felt strongly enough about to make it a vocation.  But that isn’t the question.”</p><p>Parker pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a moment.  She still didn't know how he <i>did</i> that.</p><p>“Are you asking about religion?  Or beliefs?” Nate prompted.  “Another question may be what do you trust.”</p><p>“But how do you know?” Parker demanded.  This was Nate getting all twisty again.  It wasn’t helping.</p><p>“Knowledge is a different thing entirely.  You’re going to have to answer these yourself.”</p><p>Parker felt her lips tighten into a thin line.  This was why she had called Sophie first.  Nate gave Nate-like non-answers.</p><p>“Take it apart, Parker,” Nate’s voice was gentle and confident.  And then he hung up.</p><p>She set the phone back down and glared at it.  Parker knew that the phone wasn’t to blame, but it made her feel slightly better.</p><p>When her phone didn’t spontaneously combust like she wanted it to, Parker dropped down from the beam and went to find Hardison to demand note paper and colored pens.  Nate typically would give her most of the pieces; time to sort them out and fit them back together.</p><p> </p><p><b>+1.</b><br/>
Parker spent the next few weeks picking at what Nate had said and not said.  Belief.  Religion.  Faith.  Trust.  She added a few pieces of her own: Choice.  Traditions.</p><p>Puzzles with such nebulous pieces were the hardest.  These were abstract, not a physical lock that she could pick, or a building that she could map.</p><p>The words were each written on a notecard and spread out on the floor in front of her.</p><p>Nate had asked if it was a question of religion <i>or</i> belief; that meant that they were not inherently linked.</p><p>Parker picked up the card with <i>Religion</i> on it and began to shed it into like pieces as she stared at the other words.  Religion was not a concept she was comfortable with, it felt too big, too alien to everything she'd experienced so far.  It was a system.  Parker preferred to avoid systems.</p><p>So what did that leave her?</p><p>Nana wanted her foster kids to believe in something.  Hardison had chosen Judaism, probably because it was important to Nana.  So why pull out those practices now?  Because Eliot had said it was alright?  Because she had hurt at the idea that Hardison may have felt the need to hide part of himself from them?</p><p>Because they tied the good parts and people in his life together.</p><p>Eliot no longer believed in God.  Or chose to worship.</p><p>Parker frowned.  That was another loaded word; one she didn't want to deal with.  She shoved it aside, glad it wasn’t written down.</p><p>Eliot no longer believed the same things he had when he first left home.  But he was comfortable enough with what had been and where they were now to lean into the spaces that Hardison had opened.  The special dishes that appeared that she knew Hardison didn't ask for were Eliot's wordless expression of care, acceptance, and thanks.  As he'd told her, Alec made those old wounds better.  Easier.</p><p>Parker reached forward and selected three cards, shuffling the others away.  Belief.  Trust.  Choice.  These were gifts her partners gave her, gave her space to explore and decide on her own.  Alec and Eliot.  Openness and foundation.  If she trusted anything, it was the two of them and the laws of gravity.</p><p>Reaching back to the pile, Parker held the word <i>Tradition</i> in her hands.  Maybe this was the way to tie these pieces together.  Create something just for them.</p><p>Pulling her phone out, Parker started to do her research.  She wanted to get it right this time.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Parker checked the living room of their apartment, making certain she had everything.  Hardison and Eliot were downstairs working on Pub menus and entertainment, so she’d had time to put her plan into place.  Now she was ready.  If it worked out, she’d already marked the date for next year, too.<p>Hardison came through the door first, his nose in the air as he sniffed.  “Parker, why do I smell fresh…”  He stopped walking abruptly as he saw her standing in the living room with her hands behind her back.</p><p>“Dammit, Hardison,” Eliot growled as he almost ran into the hacker.</p><p>Hardison reached behind him and pulled Eliot so that they were standing side by side facing Parker.</p><p>That worked for her.  Parker reached out and handed them each a pretzel--one covered in cinnamon sugar for Hardison, a specialty savory one for Eliot.  Hers, which was waiting for her on the table, was dipped in chocolate.  “It’s Tu B’Av,” she told them as they accepted their pretzels.</p><p>Hardison’s expression, which had already gotten that intense softness when he saw the pretzel became even more so after his surprise faded.</p><p>“Tu B’Av?” Eliot repeated.</p><p>“It’s a holiday for love,” Hardison murmured.</p><p>Parker smiled.  Hardison got it.  “Eat.”  Parker grabbed her pretzel and perched on the back of the couch, munching happily as her partners joined her.</p><p>Eliot took one bite of his pretzel and glared at her.  “Parker.  How did you get pretzels from the interpol cart?”</p><p>She shrugged.  “Called in a tip about a week ago, so now they’re staking out that park outside the courthouse.”</p><p>“But Giovanni knows what you look like; what we all look like.”</p><p>“I sent Amy.  She was happy to help,” Parker assured the hitter.  “Besides, he makes the best pretzels.  And he likes us; we’re good customers.”</p><p>Eliot made a choked noise, but continued eating his pretzel.  Hardison bumped his arm against her knee, mouth too full to contribute anything to the conversation.</p><p>Parker licked her fingers as she finished and then pulled out her cell phone.  She pressed play, so that sound of Eliot strumming a guitar filled the space.  When he’d been practicing last week, Parker had sat outside his room and recorded it, knowing that this was the other part of what she wanted for this evening.</p><p>Standing, she held out one hand to Hardison and one hand to Eliot, ignoring the fact that the hitter was glaring at her again and she could see that he wanted to snap at her.</p><p>Eliot being grouchy meant that she could push him a little bit more.  Parker tugged so that he stood between her and Hardison, their joined hands on Hardison’s hip, the hand she had joined with Hardison on Eliot’s shoulder.  Eliot in the middle usually softened after a bit of protest, and Parker was still more comfortable when she controlled the level of contact.</p><p>Hardison got it first, and started humming along to the music and swaying, eyes half shuttered as he looked at her and Eliot.  The hitter eventually grumbled and relaxed, leaning in toward Hardison, slipping his and Parker’s hands into the hacker’s back pocket.  Parker rested her forehead against the back of Eliot’s neck.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Parker felt more than heard Hardison’s low voice.</p><p>They moved together.  Slow, a little awkward; gentle and so necessary until the music faded away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In case you're curious about the Torah ark Hanukkah lamp that Parker stole, I based it off of <a href="https://thejewishmuseum.org/collection/21677-hanukkah-lamp/">this one</a> at the Jewish Museum in New York City.</p><p>Also, please feel free to come find me on Tumblr!  Drop me an ask, suggest a prompt, send me a dm.  I can be found at <a href="https://buriedbybooks.tumblr.com/">buriedbybooks</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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